I am shooting with my father’s Konica Hexar, a 35mm fixed-lens camera which was produced through the 1990s, basically at the time of my youth.
When he passed away in 2011, it suddenly came to me that the main way we had communicated with each other was through photography and music. Often late at night, he would come up with a song or a photograph and would make me listen or look – without many words. He was not a man of many words, but a man who had travelled the world and had stories to tell. When he tried to be close, he simply came up with pictures and music, that was his channel, his language, his way to express himself. It took me most of my life to realise this.
I took over Papa’s camera (and his collection of vinyl by the way) and tried to be close to him through his lens, letting him be part in our moments of travel and our moments of every day lives – capturing the magic stillness that he once taught me to treasure.
So it all started with a father-daughter-story. Often soft, but then again rough around the edges. Sometimes inspiring and then again painful. Full of laughter and lightness on common grounds yet infused by destructive human abysses on other days. Isn’t it always a bit like that? Life is what happens when we dance between its polarities.
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